House parties are dangerous

Jobs are shit, right? Right. So, this post will be about anything but.

Last week ended up being one of those weeks where you just can't stop yourself from drinking. Recovering from the previous weekend of debauchery (dancing and sweating and telling everyone I loved them in Cafe 1001 on Brick Lane), I started the week of wine on Monday for a swift one after work.

Tuesday arrived and I popped to an intimate little gig at the Soho Revue Bar, to support that gorgeous chap I went to see perform once before via MySpace. It was just as good this time round, and both me and Snow got very Tuesday-drunk.

Wednesday was where it started to get slightly more raucous as I had an evening out and in with Doormouse. We met in Soho and had a few halves in some dubious men-only venues (Rupert Street, Duke of Wellington and Bar Code, if you please), and then we headed back to his, armed with Vodka and a menu for an 11pm Indian. Takeaway, not man.

Thursday was for drinks in my hometown after work and Friday saw me have some drinks with the work crew (OK, that was a work mention, but it was not a whinge) and then Snow and I met up again and had some fun in West One.

By Saturday, I was thoroughly hung over and spaced out, so took some friends and family for drinks in Highgate, possibly to convince myself I was already living there in a quaint studio flat.

The piece de resistance came on Sunday when Doormouse threw a house party to celebrate his birthday. If you want to get technical, he turned 29, but as I pointed out, why tell the truth about something so heinous? We agreed that he could easily pull off 26, so that is how old he said he was.

Being at the end of a week-long drinking frenzy, I was slightly sceptical about the whole affair, and also because parties in houses are generally frightening - you don't know who is going to be there, you end up spending longer than is acceptable in the kitchen, and then you throw up in the bath, or something.

As it turned out, it was the highlight of the social calendar for many of London's homos and a gaggle of hags. It was such a blast and one of the most memorable moments saw Doormouse and I offer up our own rendition of Janet Jackson's 'If' routine. Not only do we know the moves and the words, we also reenacted all the dialogue from the 'making of' video, which we have off by heart.

I seem to remember a fair amount of salsa dancing, courtesy of a lovely girl called Emma who said I was a natural and other than that, it was the usual mix of too much drink and too much swearing.

I paid the price for the fun, though. I left Surrey Quays at 9:30pm and didn't arrive home in the suburbs until 12:55am, following a tube ride, a bus ride, a BR train ride and then a coach ride through some country lanes at speeds of at least 80mph.

Did I feel like shit on Monday? Yes.

Would I do it all again this weekend? Yes.

Only low point was that there was no one there for me to kiss.

Which I didn't need to mention as you probably guessed that.